


The Holmes Boys Do Not Come To Play

by LaShaRa



Series: Meeting The Family [2]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: And Also A Softie, Brotherhood, Family, Fluff, Holmes Brothers, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, Mycroft Holmes is a BAMF, Romance, The Holmes Boys, chosen families, some violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-03
Updated: 2019-08-03
Packaged: 2020-07-30 05:35:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20092108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaShaRa/pseuds/LaShaRa
Summary: They had planned for the day (or dark, stormy night, which was far more likely) when Mycroft Holmes finally met James Bond. Because one did not simply assume that the most dangerous man in Britain and the most successful Double-Oh of all time could just run into each other at Tesco and part ways without causing an international incident.





	The Holmes Boys Do Not Come To Play

**Author's Note:**

> Mycroft Holmes meets James Bond. In the most FUBAR way possible. And then this got away from me, like WOAH, did it get away from me, and it ended up being more about the Holmes Boys than anything else, I believe? But we all love the Holmes Boys, so it's fine. Anyway. Have some hurt, some comfort and a whole lotta fluff.

Q is going to kill him. 

There are a number of things that James Bond is unsure of at this precise moment - how long he’s been immobilized at the bottom of this Vietnamese rice field, for instance, or how exactly he’s going to get out of here, but there is one thing of which he is absolutely, positively, one hundred per cent sure - that Q, Quartermaster of MI6, lover of cats and tea, enemy of obsolete technology, and oh, Bond’s boyfriend, is going to _ kill him dead _, because Bond lost his comm during a rather hectic chase involving three motorbikes, two elephants and a tuk, and now he’s in a rice field, bleeding out, and Q has no way of finding him. 

Like he said. Dead.

It has occured to Bond that he may not be fully in control of all his mental faculties. This usually happens after he’s been shot at, stabbed, beaten, strangled, or some combination. Which is currently the case. 

He needs to move. He suspects that he has been trying to move for quite a while now. He tries again. Eventually, he is successful in crawling to the edge of the field and hauling himself out of the mud and onto a paved track which, if he gets all the way to the end of it, will deposit him in the nearest town. It’s not the same town where he lost his earpiece, but he has faith in Q’s abilities. He just has to make it to the town without being discovered and he can figure something out from there. How to stop bleeding, to begin with.

Needless to say, he does not make it to the town without being discovered. He doesn’t make it fifty meters. Sprinting through the mud with multiple knife-and-bullet-related injuries is uncomfortable, as Bond has previously discovered, but he makes a valiant second (third, fourth, thirtieth) attempt to do so. He fails, and this is how he ends up sprawled on his back on a second, more deserted paved track, surrounded by fantastically armed men (one of them has _ throwing stars, _ Bond would be laughing if he wasn’t in so much pain _ ) _, with a gun leveled at his head. 

Bond closes his eyes. Now that the moment has arrived, he’s a little bitter about the whole situation, and more than a little annoyed with himself. He didn’t need to take the mission. There were Double-Ohs far more suited to an assignment like this than Bond, who is well past his prime by Double-Oh standards. But they had been fighting, he and Q, and it was ugly, it had never been this ugly, not even after Madeleine, and he had taken the mission before he did something that ended it for good. Q had been so very furious, had spoken to him on the comms only when absolutely necessary, had made it clear that there would be hell to pay when he got back, and when Bond lost the comm he had ignored the safeguards that Q had drummed into him, he’d chosen to chase blindly on instead of regrouping, making sure Q knew where he was, knew how to find him, leaving a trace.

And now he’s here on the ground with a gun leveled at his head, absolutely out of options, and Q won’t even get to kill him and it bothers Bond a lot more than it probably should that Q’s been robbed of that right.

There’s a series of gunshots, a thud. There is no pain and Bond takes that as a sign to open his eyes and surge to his feet, fists out. But the men who took him are on their knees in a sea of guns and knives and throwing stars, being cuffed by blank-faced men whose demeanour screams _ Special Forces _, and the man who had the gun pointed at Bond is on his back, dead. Bond blinks blood out of his eyes. Keeps his fists up.

“If you could put those away, 007, I’d be very much obliged.”

The voice is familiar. Polished, sardonic, superior, and very, very familiar. Bond would like to get a better look at the owner of said familiar voice, but all his injuries suddenly catch up to him at precisely the same moment that his burst of adrenaline deserts him. His knees buckle. He falls, expecting to land right back on the patch of road which he was formerly occupying. 

Oddly enough, someone catches him before he hits the ground. Even more odd is the hallucination that accompanies him into a deep, lasting unconsciousness - the alarmed face of Mycroft Holmes, his boyfriend’s eldest brother, still clutching a semi-automatic and wearing the sort of pinstriped suit that counts as utterly unsuitable attire for a rice field in Vietnam. 

****

They had planned for the day (or dark, stormy night, which was far more likely) when Mycroft Holmes finally met James Bond.

There were multiple plans, actually. Records of these plans lived inside one of many cushions appropriated by Elio and Niklaus for their nest, on a device which had once been a Kindle but which Q had since transformed into one of his Blackmail Repositories. Occasionally he updated these plans, usually after a drink or six with Dr. John Watson and Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, who proved highly useful. There were graphs, 3-D models, simulations. There was an evacuation plan for most of London. 

Sherlock Holmes was not involved in these planning sessions. Mostly because his contributions tended to be sarcastic commentary on Mycroft’s supposed inability to resist anything with fondant icing and James’ supposed tendency to shoot first and ask questions later, and as Dr. Watson frequently said, there was really no need to _ encourage him._

The point was, there were _ plans. _Because one did not simply assume that the most dangerous man in Britain and the most successful Double-Oh of all time could just run into each other at Tesco and part ways without causing an international incident. 

None of these plans, _ none of these plans _ , had anticipated Bond going dark in the middle of Vietnam - _ on purpose - _and Mycroft being the one to rescue him from certain death.

Q sits outside MI6 Medical and tries to keep his expression under control. He's pretty sure it's a losing battle, but given that both Q-Branch and Mycroft’s people are watching the feed from the hallway cameras he needs to at least try. Even if it's the last thing he feels like doing. He can’t remember the last time he’s been so furious, so blindsided, so _ absolutely fucking terrified. _ Because if Mycroft hadn’t been in Vietnam on completely unrelated business, if he hadn’t had someone monitoring Bond’s op anyway, if he hadn’t made it to that field in time, Bond would be dead. Bond would be dead in a shallow grave in Vietnam and Q hadn’t done a thing to save him. Of course he’d had teams en route to Bond’s last known but they hadn’t had enough time, they’d been too conspicuous, there was a reason they’d had to send in a single agent in the first place. But they’d been fighting and Bond lost his comm and if Mycroft hadn’t been _ Mycroft _, Q would have lost Bond. Forever. 

The door at the end of the hallway bangs open. Enter Sherlock, Belstaff billowing. “Where’s John?”

Q draws a deep breath in through his nose. “Inside,” he says, and Sherlock doesn’t even break stride, he's still coming, still talking. “What, still? Well, get him out here, won’t you, we’ve a case, the train to Cardiff leaves in forty-five minutes-”

His hands are coming out of the pockets of the Belstaff, one palming his mobile and the other reaching for the handle of the door next to Q, who feels the last of his composure evaporate. “Not one more step, Sherlock.”

Sherlock stops, his mouth pursing in annoyance. “Oh, come on, it’s hardly the first time he’s been shot, surely you can spare John now-”

“Actually, yes, it’s not the first time he’s been shot, it’s not even the twentieth time he’s been shot, but be as that may, we cannot spare John, we are not going to _ spare _ anyone, because the man in there is going to get the best possible medical care he needs, because he almost _ died _, he would be dead right now if it wasn’t for Mycroft, so if he needs John Watson to stay with him John Watson is BLOODY WELL GOING TO STAY WITH HIM AND TO HELL WITH YOUR CASE, SHERLOCK!”

Q hears his own yell echo down the corridor and realizes that he’s on his feet, his hands balled into fists. Sherlock scrambles backwards, his eyes huge in his thin face. It’s been years since Q’s shouted at him this way and the guilt of it just adds to the gigantic mess of emotions swimming around in his head. “Fuck,” he says, sinking back into his chair and scrubbing his hands over his face. “Now I’ll have to wipe the security footage on top of everything else.”

For a moment the corridor is silent. Then Sherlock takes a tentative step forward. Then another. And before Q quite realizes what’s happening, Sherlock’s sinking into the chair next to his and his arm is around Q’s shoulders, tugging Q gently into his side. “_ Sherlock, _ the _ cameras,” _Q grouses, even as he curls automatically into the folds of that ridiculous coat. 

“You were going to wipe the footage anyway,” says Sherlock, deceptively unconcerned even as his hand pets clumsily at Q’s hair. 

“Twat,” says Q, even as some of the fear drains out of him, diffused and diluted by the memory of other years, other moments, the other life where he was Victor, where he’d curled up with Sherlock in some hiding place, some lair, up in the attics or out on the grounds, the two of them safe from the world. None of the Holmes boys had had an easy time of it when it came to understanding the fickle, cruel, _ human _ side of everything they were up against, but Victor had been five and anxious and scared, and Sherlock had been ten and just as anxious and scared, but also determined, in the way that only Sherlock could be, that he was going to keep his baby brother as far away from the scary things as he could. And they were decades older now, so much more scarred, but there was still something left in them, one truth left to them, that they were Holmes brothers who had only trusted each other.

The door opens and Q tenses and feels Sherlock do the same, but then there’s that sound they would know anywhere in the world, the ponderous tap of a much-modified umbrella against a hospital corridor, and both of them relax. Because despite all the bad blood and bad choices and betrayal, at the end of the day, after the scary things have happened, there is also this other part of the truth - Mycroft will come for them. Because when they were five and ten and small and scared, Mycroft had been nineteen, and he had been scared too, there was a part of him that was still small too, but he could fix it. He would fix it for them, he would make the world safe for them, and then he would come, climbing up the dripping oak tree in his perfect suit to where Sherlock was asleep on a branch with Victor asleep between him and the trunk of the tree, and he would coax them out of hiding, because it was safe now. Because he said so. 

And maybe there have been years and years where they fought and railed and chafed against this truth and maybe it hasn’t always been the best truth for them, and maybe not having it for a little while was the reason their lives had room enough for a scarred Double-Oh and a mild-mannered army doctor (and, if Sherlock is to be believed, a rugged detective inspector) - but right now, they are Victor and Sherlock and Mycroft, looking at each other in the branches of the oak tree, three Holmes brothers against the world. 

“He’ll make a full recovery,” says Mycroft in his flat, factual way, and Q sags just a little, just for a moment, before he gets out of his chair, feeling rather than seeing Sherlock folding himself away behind him. “The good doctor is just taking care of a few details. Do calm yourself, Sherlock, he’ll be out in a moment.”

Sherlock hisses loudly, and Q grins despite himself, despite everything. Mycroft’s mouth quirks and he taps his umbrella against the floor, once, twice. “As exciting as I have found all this commotion and - _ physical exertion - _there are numerous rather pressing matters that demand my personal attention. Do try to stay out of trouble for the next forty-eight hours at least, brothers mine. I’d quite like to spend a night in my own bed.”

Sherlock opens his mouth to make a comment of a predictably lewd nature but John Watson appears in the doorway and he’s immediately distracted. Q slips after Mycroft, who hears him coming with the same uncanny ability that John and James possess in spades. “Mycroft, wait.”

They face each other in the corridor. Mycroft has an inch of height on Sherlock and dear Lord, that inch has been a bone of contention for the better part of their adult lives, but he has four whole inches over Q. Somehow, Q finds it’s ceased to matter, the fact that he has to look up to Mycroft. In the grand scheme of things, this is his brother, and his brother is the reason that his lover is alive at this precise moment, because he stepped in when Q couldn’t. Maybe he wouldn’t have been completely fine with that even a couple of years ago, but now? With James lying mere feet away, battered and broken but _ breathing, _as opposed to dead in a shallow grave in Vietnam? 

Yes. Q is fine with this. Victor is fine with this.

“Mycroft,” he says. “Thank you.” Between the lines, because they are Holmes brothers, who have never needed much to make a connection, even without surveillance: _ This is the love of my life and you brought him back alive and there’s no way I can ever repay you for that. _

The umbrella taps once. “Of course, Quartermaster.” _ He is yours, which means he is ours, and we protect our own. _He turns away, raising a hand. “Good day, gentlemen.” Within a couple of seconds, he’s gone.

Q turns back to find John and Sherlock watching him. They’re standing close, and Q will wager his three favourite minions that Sherlock’s hand is latched onto the back of John’s coat. John, for his part, is smiling at Q in his kind, crinkle-eyed way. “He should be asleep,” he says, nodding at the half-open door. 

Q smiles. “He’s not asleep, is he?”

John shrugs his shoulders. “Not unless “asleep” also means “stubbornly clinging to consciousness until he sets eyes on his quartermaster.”

“We fought.” It’s a whisper, guilty and heartsick, and it kills Q to admit it, that he could still be this stupid, but if there is anyone he can admit this to it is John Watson, the man who loves his mad brother. And he knows this because John meets his eyes, and there’s kinship in his eyes, sad and sober and aware of the impossibility of this thing they’ve chosen to do. “Yeah, I know,” he says. “And I’m not saying it wasn’t important. God knows, it was probably important enough that you’ll find yourself having the exact same fight not a month after the bandages come off.” Off to the side, Sherlock starts fussing for his mobile; John reaches out and takes his hand without so much as blinking. “But right now? Right now, he’s home, and he’s fighting enough drugs to take down an elephant just to see you. So off you go, Q.” He smiles then, the man who loves his brother, and Q smiles back. “Go kiss that daft lad of yours, eh?”

Q says, “Do bite your tongue, Dr. Watson,” but he’s laughing and John is grinning and as he opens the door Sherlock blurts out, “Baker Street. Bond - bring him. When he’s better. Mrs. Hudson will make biscuits.” Then he’s off, the Belstaff whirling, and John Watson shakes his head and marches in his wake and Q slips through the door.

The room is quiet and sterile, the lights dimmed. James lies in the bed, so cocooned by the web of IVs and tubes and bandages that all Q can really see of him is his hair, one closed eye and one bare shoulder. He wants to throw up; he wants to run from the room; he wants to bury himself in Q-Branch and overhaul every single comm they’ve designed in the past year until he’s figured out how to surgically implant them in their bullheaded agents’ heads. But then Bond’s eyelids flutter, just a bit; his lips part on a soundless sigh. Q finds his feet carrying him forward until he hits the bed, until he has to stumble around to the chair on the other side and fall into it, one hand reaching out to ghost over Bond’s shoulder. 

“Hello, Quartermaster.” The words are a whisper, hoarse with a wheeze at the end. They had a tube in his throat, Q remembers. He’ll be wheezing for a while. “Hello, 007,” he says, and he’s proud of how rock steady his voice is. “What a bloody mess you’ve made of yourself.” Something silver glints at him from under the water glass on Bond's bedside table; he leans over and stares at it and it takes a second for him to realize what he's seeing. "Bond, is there a _throwing star_ on your bedside table?"

There’s a pause and then Bond rasps, “That would be Mycroft's fault. Also, have I mentioned that your family is fucking terrifying?”

Q bursts out laughing. It’s a little too loud, a little too desperate, and it takes him a little too long to get himself back under control, but the last sixty-two hours catch up to him all of a sudden and he needs a moment. When he’s finally hiccuped his way back into something like composure, he finds Bond gazing at him with the one unbandaged, sky-blue eye. “I’m sorry-” he starts to say and Q sticks a hand under the blankets and fumbles for Bond’s gauze wrapped fingers, because that’s as much as he can take. “I know, James,” he says. “I know, love. I’m sorry too. I’m sorry too.”

He leans forward. “We will talk about this,” he promises. “What happened out there, that was a clusterfuck, that was a terrifying bloody mess, and we are going to talk about why that is not going to happen again.” He watches Bond’s gaze dart away from his and smiles, tired. “But not right now. Right now, you’re going to sleep and I’m going to nap at your bedside, because otherwise my brother will return to force the issue and we’ve seen quite enough of family today, I think.”

Bond hitches ever so slightly, the ghost of a full-bodied laughed. “On the contrary, I think we need all the family we can get,” he breathes, his fingers sliding against Q’s, and then he’s slipping away, exhaustion and pain taking him at last. Q holds on and settles in for a few hours of watching the lights and shadows shift across Bond’s sleeping face while simultaneously erasing the security footage, just in case his brothers haven’t taken care of it already. Silently, he agrees.

_ We need all the family we can get. _


End file.
